In Roaring He Shall Rise
by Mousme
Summary: High Seas AU: In which plucky American sailor Jimmy Novak finds himself press-ganged into the Royal Navy, and falls in with the eccentric crew of the HMS Impala.
1. Chapter 1

Title: **In Roaring He Shall Rise**

Prompt/Summary: Written for **pyrebi** for Novakfest. Her prompt was for a high seas AU in which Jimmy gets press-ganged into the Royal Navy.

Characters: Jimmy, Sam, Dean, Castiel, Crowley, Bobby

Rating: PG-13

Wordcount: 16,625

Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable in this fic belongs to me.

Warnings: Complete disregard for canon. Misuse of 18th-century ships. Minor character death.

Neurotic Author's Note #1: I veered away from the prompt a little bit, but I'm hoping I at least got the spirit of the thing right. This thing was evil and ate my brain and caused me no amount of trouble because of how I chose to tackle it, but I think it turned out pretty decently, overall.

Neurotic Author's Note #2: So you will notice that none of the characters come close to talking the way they do in the Show. I waffled about this for the longest time, but eventually I decided I couldn't stomach that many anachronisms in my fic. I like to think that I kept them at least a little bit in character, bearing in mind that this is an AU and that therefore there is a whole lot less angst than current canon has established, and also that almost none of them are actually of the same nationality as they are in the show.

Neurotic Author's Note #3: Writing this was probably the worst idea of my life, because know nothing about eighteenth-century sailing ships. Anyone who knows anything about it, I apologize deeply for every heresy I have committed in this fic, because all of it is stuff gleaned from the internet and/or pulled directly from my ass. I am so sorry. /o\

Neurotic Author's Note #4: Furthermore, I will beg the indulgence of my readers, as there are holes in the plot big enough for a Kraken to swim through. Let's just all pretend we can't see them, m'kay?

Neurotic Author's Note #5: Speaking of stuff I know nothing about, I will also apologize for the likely entirely Canadian diction of characters who are meant to be British. I've tried very hard to keep it reasonably neutral-sounding, but I'm sure there are instances of massive fail.

Neurotic Author's Note #6: (Yes, I can totally have six A/Ns if I want!) All my thanks and adoration to the awesome mods of **Novakfest** for putting this together and for being super understanding with me and giving me the necessary extensions to get this thing done and beta'd. You guys rock! Furthermore, I would like to extend my thanks to **pkwench**, beta and all-around rockstar, who helped me brainstorm this monster and gave me some of the best ideas in here. Mwah!

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_November 2__nd__, Year of Our Lord, 1797_

My dearest Amelia,

I have no idea if this letter will ever have the good fortune of reaching you, but I am writing it in the hopes that, the next time we make port, I will find a way of posting it.

It has been three interminable months since I was last able to write, and I am afraid my news is grim. Since I last wrote to you, my fortunes have taken a turn for the worse, and I am not sure whether I shall ever see you or our darling Claire ever again. I am sorry to send such ill tidings, my dearest, but I would rather you know the truth by my own hand, than spend the next years in ignorance of my plight. I would not have you in the dark any longer than necessary. I don't know why I find myself so reluctant to put this to paper, even after resolving to do so: perhaps because I fear in my heart of hearts that it will make this nightmare become real. I have been impressed into service for the Royal Navy.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning of this sorry tale. The _Independent Spirit_ was bound back to America when it happened, of all the ironies. The attack upon our ship took us all unawares, I am afraid to say. It was before dawn on the morning of the seventh of August, and the world was bathed in mist as far as the eye could see. Although I have been a seafaring man for many a year now, I have never ceased to marvel at the strange quiet that befalls the oceans at these times, the fog dampening even the occasional shouts of the sailors, as though nature itself cannot countenance a disturbance of the peace. I have come to relish those few hours of tranquility, and it had become my habit to come up on deck even when I was not on duty. It was thus that I was present when the officer of the watch sounded the call to quarters.

At first, it seemed to be naught but a false alarm. Captain Pike hastened up on deck, and there was a hurried but quiet exchange between the officers that I could not make out from where I was stationed. The telescope changed hands a number of times, while the rest of us were left to squint toward the invisible horizon, to no avail. There was nothing to be seen but mist and cloud. Just as we were preparing to stand down, the sky erupted in flames, the clouds glowing crimson and saffron as the enemy guns came to life. We found ourselves scrambling to our posts, attempting to man the guns and return fire while the captain barked orders as quickly as he could. Confusion reigned, even as broadside after broadside raked across our bows.

Alas, you must know all too well that the _Independent Spirit_ is no match for a frigate, being merely a merchant brigantine with twelve guns. We were severely outclassed by the _Hellhound_, which had come out of the mist living up to its name, belching smoke and fire. We put up a fight as best we could, but within half an hour our vessel was overrun, and Captain Pike was forced to surrender his sword, even as we stood amidst the wreckage on our deck. The captain of the _Hellhound_, a self-important, disagreeable little man named Crowley, soon made it clear that he had no respect at all for the sovereignty of our ship. The Royal Navy, as you know, often has few compunctions when it comes to American vessels. They don't respect our flag, or indeed anything about us. Captain Crowley fairly spat on the letter of marque we carried, and seized the ship on the spot, sending her back to Portsmouth under a newly-appointed captain from his crew.

You must have guessed our citizenship papers meant no more to him than scrap paper. When I attempted to protest the impressment, the man simply sneered at me.

"Your papers are worthless," he said, his accent betraying him as being from the lower classes. As impressive as his progression through the ranks must be, I cannot say the man has endeared himself to me in any fashion, however. "I own you now, mate. Body and soul."

In essence, the British government cares not one whit that I have lived almost all of my life in America: it only cares that I was born on British soil. As it is, a half-dozen of us have found ourselves press-ganged into service aboard the HMS _Hellhound_, where we have been ever since, with little hope of ever being able to return home.

Life on board this new ship is nothing like it was aboard the _Independent Spirit_. The days are long and brutal, and Captain Crowley is overly fond of the lash, though I am lucky enough to have escaped such a punishment so far. Others have not been so fortunate, however. Young Lucas, the lookout from the _Independent Spirit_ who first spotted the enemy ship, was press-ganged along with me in order to replace a boy who was killed during our skirmish. The unfortunate lad failed to salute Captain Crowley one morning, and was given twelve lashes for his insubordination. I am sorry to say that he has not fared well since: his wounds have suppurated, and the ship's surgeon has been able to do little for him.

The rest of us have all begun to show signs of fatigue and illness, which I believe is due in part at least to the terrible quality of the rations we are issued. The water here is foul, and I fancy there are more weevils than flour in the supplies. We are all exhausted, my muscles ache with every movement, and it is increasingly painful to rouse myself in the morning. Already I have lost one tooth, though luckily it was a molar that has been troubling me for a while now. I don't relish the prospect of losing more teeth, though. Loose teeth make it difficult to chew the hard tack we are given, and I daresay that you would find me a good deal less attractive, my dear, if I came back to you toothless. Please try not to worry when you read this: I will endeavour, the next time we make land, to avail myself of fresh fruit and vegetables. That has always kept me before, and doubtless it will again.

I miss you and Claire every minute of every day. I know that you must have already begun to worry by now, since our ship was due to return nearly six weeks ago, and it breaks my heart to think of you, waiting anxiously for news where there is none. Perhaps someone has managed to get word to you, but I rather think not. It is too soon, for one thing. With any luck, I shall find someone to take this letter and send it to you.

Please give Claire a kiss for me, though I hope that you have been doing so every day since I have left. And please remember that I love you.

All my love,

Jimmy


	2. Chapter 2

_January 24__th__, Year of Our Lord, 1798_

My dearest Amelia,

Once again I find that months have passed since I have been able to collect myself and put my thoughts down in ink in the hopes of keeping you apprised of my situation. I hope you will not hold it against me ―you know that I am normally a faithful correspondent, but I have been kept from being diligent in my writings by circumstances entirely out of my control, as you no doubt know.

So much has happened since I last wrote, I scarce know where to begin. I suppose I should first reassure you that I am no longer aboard the _Hellhound_. It all seems like a terrible dream now, but it was real enough. I didn't want to alarm you, Amelia, but I was quite certain when I last wrote you, that if I was to spend much longer aboard that accursed ship, that I was doomed to an early grave, sewn up in my hammock, weighted down with shot and tossed unceremoniously to the bottom of Davy Jones' locker. Captain Crowley seemed determined to break the spirits of those of us press-ganged aboard his ship, perhaps to ensure that we would not try to escape, given the opportunity. We were given the most demeaning and most gruelling of ship-board tasks, the bare minimum of rations to survive. Poor young Lucas died of a fever some few days after I last wrote to you. I need not exaggerate when I say that our situation was desperate.

My salvation came in a very unlikely form. Even now, it all seems so improbable that I can't quite bring myself to believe it. I shall try to recount the events as accurately as I can, but you will soon see why some of my memories may not be as clear as they might otherwise be. It was some days after the New Year, and we hadn't so much as sighted a bird on the horizon in nearly a week, when there was a commotion from the crow's nest. The lookout had spotted a sail bearing down on our position at a fair clip, easily outstripping our speed. Within a few hours the unknown ship had almost overtaken us, though her course appeared to deviate from ours. She was a pretty ship, a sleek little corvette named the _Impala._ Her black sails were what had alarmed our lookouts, but she flew our flag, and by the time she was upon us it was evident she had no ill-intentions toward us. We traded a few friendly jibes across our bows ―a far cry from the last serious ship-to-ship encounter I had experienced!― and it soon became obvious that the captains of our respective vessels were acquainted with each other.

"Crowley, you sly old dog!" the other captain shouted at us. "Still terrorizing American vessels, I hear!"

"It's a damned sight more profitable than chasing monsters, Winchester!" Captain Crowley rejoined, but I could tell that his composure was ruffled.

"Oi!" another of the sailors yelled at us, voice unaided by the captain's loudspeaker, but it carried nonetheless clearly across the waves. "Any of you lot tired of working under that tyrant?" A few of us paused in our work at those words, though they were clearly meant in jest. "Come with us! We're heading back to the Americas, for wine, women and song!"

There was a burst of jeering laughter from our ship, but the damage was done. All I could think in that moment was that my salvation lay within a stone's throw. How could I resist the temptation? Up until then I had always discounted the sailors' stories about the sirens' irresistible lure, but I swear to you, Amelia, at that very moment that man's voice was like the sweetest music to my ears, and I could conceive of nothing but following it, wherever it might lead. Before I even knew what I was doing it I had leapt up from where I had been swabbing the deck, pushed off the railing, and plunged headlong into the sea.

The water was bitterly cold, and the breath was knocked from my lungs. I struggled to the surface, coughing and struggling, and struck out toward the other ship with all the strength that remained in my limbs. Dimly I could hear shouts coming from both ships, and then Captain Crowley's rang out, clear as a bell.

"Get that bugger back! I don't care if it's his carcass you bring on board, bring him back!"

There was another splash from behind me, and I made the mistake of turning in the water to see who my pursuer was. I didn't recognize him over the swell of the waves, but he was upon me in moments, being larger and in better physical condition than I. We struggled briefly, and there my memories grow hazy, as though an unexpected fog rolled in. He drew a knife on me, confident that he would be able to overpower me, and I felt a burning pain in my side, saw a small cloud of pink in the water as he spilled my blood, which just as quickly dissipated. I have not spent these many years surviving all the scraps and skirmishes the high seas could throw at me without learning a trick or two of my own. I drove the heel of my hand against the bridge of his nose in a vicious blow, and as he thrashed about, trying to keep his head above water, I grabbed at his wrist with both hands, attempting to disarm him. He fought back, but desperation lent strength to my arms.

I am sorry to say that I slew him, my dearest. I have killed more than my fair share of men in the years I have been sailing, and all of them have been in the heat of battle. This time it was in a struggle for my very life, and while I do not regret my actions, I cannot help but regret that the man's blood was spilled simply for the attempt to bring back one wayward sailor.

The knife sank to the bottom of the ocean, and I struck out again toward the _Impala_. All of her crew, or so it seemed to me at the time, were crowding at the rails, leaning over and shouting encouragements at me. I was already flagging badly by then, already weak from my time aboard the _Hellhound_, and further weakened by the knife wound to my side, which was still bleeding freely into the water. It felt as though I was losing ground with every stroke ―the ship seemed to recede from my view, even as I strove toward with all my might. I would have despaired had I not caught sight of a young man directly in front of me, his hair coming loose from its bindings, bright-eyed and smiling, with his hand outstretched. He was far beyond my reach, but I swear, in that moment it felt as though he might simply have stretched a mere few inches in order to pull me aboard.

I almost made it. I was exhausted and chilled to the bone, my waterlogged clothes weighing me down. The pain in my side was all but blinding, and I felt myself begin to falter, in spite of everything. I swallowed a mouthful of seawater, then another, and I began to sink. The cries of the men were drowned out by the roar of the ocean, which itself was drowned out by the roaring in my ears. The waters closed above my head, and though I breached the surface once, even twice, the current dragged me inexorably downward. The last thing I remember is watching the sun, glowing dimly above the greenish surface of the waves. Then everything went black.

For a very long time, very little seemed to make sense. Dimly I was aware of no longer being wet or cold, but that was all. Sometimes I heard voices around me, whispering, sometimes raised in argument. Often I was prey to restless dreams in which I found myself being pulled toward the bottom of the ocean, or in which I wandered in confused circles, searching for some unidentifiable, lost thing. I dreamed of you and Claire, too, my darling, and those were the best moments of all. I was home, and we were together, and our daughter's laughter rang like silver bells in the spring air. Most of the time, though, I was conscious only of being uncomfortably hot, of a pair of hands soothing me, holding me in place when I struggled against the unrelenting pain in my side.

When I came to, it was to a gentle rocking sensation. I opened my eyes to find myself lying on a cot, stripped of all my clothes, with no more than a blanket to preserve my modesty. In all fairness, I doubt there was very much left to preserve, in my current condition. I found myself staring into a pair of startlingly green eyes, not unlike the colour of the Mediterranean sea on a clear day. The face that came into focus was a handsome one, with features so delicate they might almost have seemed feminine in another man. As it was, the man's features pulled into a scowl.

"Back with us, are you?" he said gruffly. I opened my mouth, but found my throat too parched to speak. He shook his head, then held a cup to my lips. "Come along, then, drink this. It'll do you a world of good."

I drank greedily, but he would not let me take but a few sips at a time. To my surprise, I found that he was giving me fresh water, liberally dosed with lemon juice. I simply stared over the rim of the cup, too weak to do much but submit to his ministrations. Once I had drunk my fill, the man propped me up on a makeshift cushion of rough sacking and removed the dressing from my side, examining what I now could see was a long, deep laceration along my left side below my ribcage, which had been neatly sutured. The flesh surrounding the sutures was an ugly red colour, but the man nodded as though satisfied.

"You're faring better than I had hoped," he said. "To be honest, I wasn't sure you would survive at all. Your wound festered, and doubtless your advancing case of scurvy hasn't helped your recovery. You're not out of the woods yet, and even if you do pull through, the captain will be wanting a word or three with you."

"Where am I?" I managed to croak. I was rather proud of myself for managing even that much. I was rewarded with an amused smirk.

"Aboard the _Impala_. It was touch-and-go with you for a while. You put even my skills to the test. An American, are you? Tell me, do you make a habit of flinging yourself off of ships? Even if it's customary where you come from, it's not something our captain approves of, I feel duty-bound to tell you. Reckless, at the best of times, downright foolhardy otherwise."

I was spared having to answer by a coughing fit, and he gave me more water to drink. By the time I was able to talk, I instead posed the question that burned brightest in my mind. "What will you do with me?"

"I? With you?" he laughed. "Nothing. I am but a simple doctor, serving as ship's surgeon. My task is to keep you on the mend, and that is all. As for the captain? Let us say he and the admiral are having a difference of opinion about what is to be done with you. I daresay one or the other will be along to speak with you, now that you're no longer raving with fever."

"How long have I been aboard?" I asked, though my head was beginning to throb abominably.

"A little over a fortnight. Perhaps now would be a good time to tell me your name? It's grown wearisome to refer to you only as 'the patient,' or 'the drowned rat,' depending on the context."

"James Novak," I accepted his proffered hand, and we shook solemnly, though I felt rather silly doing so, half-naked and entirely at his mercy. "Though most call me Jimmy. And you, sir? I would like to know the name of the man who saved my life."

He snorted. "In truth, that dubious honour goes to the captain. The idiot _would_ jump in after you when it seemed you were destined to drown. My name is Dean Winchester, for what it's worth. Ship's surgeon, at your service." He pulled out a pocket watch with his free hand, and shifted his grip to clasp my wrist and check my pulse. "Still too fast," he said disapprovingly, then he quirked his lips in an odd smile. "Get some rest. Whatever the admiral has to say to you can wait, though I doubt I'll be able to keep him away for very long. Go on, back to sleep."

I was only too happy to comply.

When I awoke again, it was to the sound of voices, whispering in what was obviously a heated argument not three feet away from my sickbed. I immediately recognized one of the voices as belonging to the surgeon.

"Damn it all, Sam, I will not have you interfering with my patient! He is too weak to be questioned thus. I won't stand for it. You and Castiel will just have to wait."

"It's Lord Castiel," came the mild reproof, the voice as yet unknown to me. "Or Admiral Castiel, if you prefer to use his proper rank. Do show some respect, Dean."

There was a mild snort. "The man's cracked."

"Dean," the reproach was still mild, but nonetheless insistent. I caught movement from the corner of my eye, and a shape loomed over my bed. "The resemblance is uncanny. They might be twins, if not for this one's obvious physical deterioration ―oh, you're awake," the man's face approached, and now that it was no longer a blur, I saw a blush forming on finely-formed cheeks, and blue eyes flecked with hazel that sparkled with good humour. He was a handsome lad, and looked to be barely over twenty years of age. "My apologies. I didn't mean to offend."

I nodded, utterly confused as to what he was talking about. Before I had a chance to so much as open my mouth, the surgeon spoke up. "Leave him be, Sam. At least let him have something to drink before you begin your interrogation." As he approached my bed, I got a good look at him for the first time, and saw what I had missed the first time ―that he walked with a severe limp, leaning heavily upon a stout walking stick with an ornately carved silver grip. He sat down heavily beside me, then pressed another cup of lemon water into my hand. "Go on, drink."

"You'd best do as he says," the tall man said, with a fond expression that bordered upon the exasperated. "Dean is very particular about his patients following his prescribed treatments."

"And have you had a single man die from scurvy?" the surgeon pointed out irritably.

"Not a one," the other man assented happily. "All thanks to your excellent skills as a doctor. There, have I flattered your pride enough?"

There was a dissatisfied grumble, but the surgeon seemed mollified, nonetheless. "You, my good man," he said to me, nudging my hand, "are lucky we had just purchased more lemons when you came aboard."

"Dean is convinced of the many healing properties of citrus."

The surgeon snorted. "You'll just have to take my word for it that it cleanses the humours. I know what I'm doing, Sam."

"Of course you do. And how do you fare, sir? Dean tells me your name is Novak?"

I nodded. "Jimmy. I'm afraid you have the advantage of me."

He shook my hand, rather more enthusiastically than I was expecting, and awarded me a blinding smile, complete with dimples. He seemed, in that moment, not much more than an overgrown boy. "Samuel Winchester."

"You're the captain?" I gawked, and immediately regretted my inadvertent _faux pas, _but he threw his head back in a burst of good-natured laughter.

"Never fear, I often get that reaction. It's true, I am a little young to be a post captain."

"Youngest in the fleet," the surgeon added. "Sam's always been revoltingly adept at that sort of thing." That's when my befuddled mind put two and two together.

"Are you blood relatives, then?"

"Brothers," the captain confirmed. "Dean is the eldest, and never tires of reminding me of the fact." The family resemblance was obvious, now that I knew it was there. Something about the eyes, mostly, and the way they held themselves. It was in their mannerisms more than anything else.

"It's because you'd get above yourself otherwise. Now, have you finished taxing my patient? He's too weak for anything more. Run along and manage your ship,"he waved dismissively with one hand.

I must say, Amelia, that I was more than a little shocked by the familiarity with which the surgeon spoke to the captain. I have never known a captain to brook such insubordination before, but perhaps due to their fraternal relationship, the captain let it pass without further comment. Indeed, if anything he seemed more amused by his elder brother's tone rather than anything. He huffed, rolled his eyes, and turned to duck through the low door. "I'll see you at dinner, Dean. Try not to be late this time."

"I'll be sure to instruct the crew not to fall ill so that your dinner plans won't be disrupted," came the sardonic reply. The doctor scowled at me, then, apparently realizing that I had been privy to the whole exchange. He limped to my bedside, then pulled out his watch fob once more, grasping my wrist in his fingers. "Hold still until I tell you otherwise. Does your head hurt?"

I managed a nod. In truth, my head was throbbing abominably, and the rest of me wasn't faring much better. I rather felt as though several burly men had taken turns giving me a severe beating, and my side ached and burned where I had been stabbed. The doctor startled me a moment later by placing a hand on my brow, and I realized with some surprise that I had been in danger of falling asleep.

"Not just yet," he said gently, and favoured me with a smile that was just as kind as his brother's, if more subdued. It softened his otherwise stern countenance, and I saw the beginnings of crows' feet at the corners of his eyes. "Give me a few more moments to finish examining you, and then you may sleep to your heart's content."

He was true to his word. A few minutes later he ceased his ministrations, satisfied that, even though I was still weak and feverish, I was well on my way back to health. He dosed me with some bitter-tasting medicine, and after mere seconds I was fast asleep.

That was two days before the time of this writing, and since then, my darling, it seems to me I have done very little other than sleep. The few times I have been alert, it has been only for a few minutes at a time, long enough for the doctor to coax broth and medicine into me, but no longer. This evening, though, he has pronounced me sufficiently well to acquiesce to my request for paper and ink to write you and tell you of my change in fortunes. Tomorrow, I am told, Captain Winchester and the heretofore-unseen Admiral Castiel wish to speak with me. I do not know what they will think to do with me, but I am hopeful that, having struggled to keep me alive thus far, they will be reluctant to undo all their hard work.

I will write to you as soon and as often as I am able. Please tell Claire that I love her and think of both of you at every waking moment, and dream only of being reunited with you, in the end.

Love,

Jimmy


	3. Chapter 3

_February 8__th__, Year of Our Lord 1798_

My darling Amelia,

I know that I promised to write you sooner, and more faithfully than I have, and not a day has gone by when I have not thought of you, nor missed your warmth, your laughter, and your goodness. A great deal has transpired since I was last able to write, and I shall endeavour to put my thoughts in order, so that you might learn everything that has happened to me.

The morning after I wrote to you last, the captain appeared next to my sickbed again. He's a handsome lad, though perhaps not as classically good-looking as his brother. Where the doctor has finely-formed, symmetrical features, and eyes that are startlingly like the Andaman sea on a cloudy day, his brother's good looks appear to stem mostly from being remarkably good-natured. He is a tall man by any standards, and towers over most of the crew by a good head. Indeed, though I am reckoned to be tall myself, he stands at least three or four inches taller than I. He had to duck in order to come into the confines of the infirmary, and folded himself uncomfortably into a sitting position on a crate by my bed. He leaned in toward me, his hair falling forward into his face, apparently resistant to every attempt to keep it tied back, which only added to his youthful appearance. I couldn't help but wonder at what must hide behind that cheerful smile, for him to be appointed captain of a ship at such a young age. Indeed, I have never heard of such a thing before now. All the post captains I have encountered, especially those in the British Navy, have been well into their thirties, sometimes older. It takes the wisdom and clarity of age to properly run a ship, and a less charitable part of me wondered if there might not be some form of nepotism at work, here. Still, this man had quite literally saved my life by pulling me from the ocean, and it felt churlish and ungrateful to allow my thoughts to continue among those lines.

"Well, Mr. Novak," he said, placing a large hand on my arm in a gesture that was oddly comforting, and he fixed me with a stare that was intense, though not unkind. "What are we to do with you?"

I squirmed under the scrutiny. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. As much as I might have hoped otherwise, there are strict rules in the Navy for those who would desert their post, and Captain Winchester did not strike me as the kind of man who would willingly flout the rules.

"The Admiral is most insistent that you be punished. He is a great believer in discipline, as am I." He frowned at me, and I felt myself flush with embarrassment. If you had asked me a year ago what I thought of the men who tried to abandon their post, I would without hesitation have told you that they deserve nothing but the swiftest and most extreme justice. "You were extremely reckless, Mr. Novak, that much is obvious. How else do you explain falling into the water thus, when you should have been watching your footing?"

I gaped at him, astonished to see the faintest hint of a smile quirking one corner of his mouth. "I..."

"You needn't attempt to justify yourself," he continued, interrupting me. "Reckless and irresponsible, that's what you were, and now that we have you aboard, I cannot have you setting such an example for my crew. I have managed to convince the Admiral that ten lashes will be more than sufficient, given your recent injuries, which are almost punishment enough in themselves."

"What?" There came an indignant bark from the surgeon. "Sam, you said nothing of this to me," he said, leaning heavily on his cane as he made his way toward us. "The man has only recently escaped death, and now you mean to flog him?"

"Dean..."

"No! I will not have it, not in my surgery!" the doctor glared. "Bad enough you adhere to these barbaric traditions, but I will not have you undo all my hard work!"

"It's not that simple. You know as well as I―"

"Of course I know, Sam, and that's the problem. Are you going to tell me that this wasn't justified? That Crowley is a sadist, and we both know it. No man in his right mind would willingly serve under him! Sending him back would have been a death sentence, even you agreed, and now you want to indulge in the same practices as that ―that _monster_?"

The captain rose, then, and from where I lay seemed to veritably loom over his brother. "You overstep yourself, Dean," he said softly, and his tone sent chills through me. Dean, however, did not appear in the least bit intimidated. He simply stared back, seemingly about to physically interpose himself between the captain and my bed, if necessary.

"Overstep myself?" he spat derisively. "If it comes to that, Sam, then yes, I will certainly overstep myself. I am still your brother, and still your elder, and I will damned well speak my mind when you are committing yourself to such a reprehensible course of action. I cannot countenance this, you know that. It's barbaric and cruel and entirely pointless." He pointed at me. "Has this man not suffered enough?"

"I have no choice in the matter, and you know it!" the captain rejoined hotly. "I will thank you not to climb upon your high horse with me. Not all of us have the luxury of moral superiority when it comes to these things."

"High horse?" I could not quite fathom the expression of pain and anger that suddenly flashed across the doctor's face. "Oh, that _is_ rich, coming from you. Tell me, does twisting that particular knife give you pleasure?"

Immediately his brother's countenance fell, and I could see that he was consumed with regret, and not a little guilt. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"How did you mean it, then?" The question was nastily put.

I cleared my throat, and the two men turned, identical expressions of surprise on their features, as though they had forgotten that I, the reason for their argument, was even present. It would have been comical, under other circumstances. "If I may?" I struggled to sit up, and immediately the captain lent me an arm, propping me up. "If it makes any difference at all, I will gladly take the punishment you wish to mete out. It is richly deserved," I held up a hand to forestall what I perceived to be an objection from Dr. Winchester. "Indeed, it is far lesser a punishment than I deserve for my particular... transgression. I would not for anything wish to undermine the discipline of your crew, not after all you have done for me."

The captain nodded. "I was rather hoping you would see it that way. Good man," he added quietly. The doctor, however, did not appear in any measure mollified.

"Very well," he muttered. "If all of you are determined to carry on with this ―this ridiculous notion... I wish you joy of it. Be damned, the lot of you!"

And upon that he turned on his heel and stalked from the room as quickly as his limp and the rocking of the ship would allow. The captain shook his head at his brother's retreating back, then looked down at me, his lips pressed together in a thin, disapproving line.

"It will be two days hence, to make sure you are strong enough. Be prepared. For what little it is worth, I am sorry it must come to this."

Then he followed quickly in his brother's footsteps, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I have witnessed a number of floggings in my years at sea, my darling, and none of them have been pleasant to observe. No matter the number of lashes, no matter how justified the punishment, the process has always filled me with a certain horror which, I suppose, is the whole point of the affair. To say, therefore, that I was apprehensive of my fate would be an understatement. When the day of my punishment dawned, I am not ashamed to tell you that I was positively quaking with fear. Paradoxically, I was grateful to the captain for my upcoming flogging. By all rights, since it was evident that I had been attempting to desert my ship ―for all that there were extenuating circumstances― I should be hanged. By comparison, I was getting off scot-free. I quitted my bed when it was still dark out, and made my way up on deck for the first time. I received more than a few curious glances from the crew, since they had not caught much more than a glimpse of me since my headlong plunge into the water weeks before. For the most part, though, they left me well alone. A flogging sometimes has that effect on people: they fear that its taint might spread to them.

I made my way to the side rail, gazing down at the churning water, and was startled when someone cleared their throat by my side. Looking up, I caught sight of a grizzled older man, streaks of grey in his sandy beard, a balding head concealed by a kerchief. One brown eye regarded me kindly, the other hidden behind a ragged black eye patch.

"Didn't mean to startle ya," he said by way both of introduction and apology. "Name's Singer, but most of the crew call me Bobby."

"Good morrow to you, Mr. Singer," I mustered what few manners I had left, though I was still filled with apprehension about the punishment to come.

"Been talking with the lads, and I just wanted to let you know, there ain't a soul aboard thinks you were in the wrong. Everyone knows well enough what Crowley's like, and how much he hates Americans. You stayed aboard the _Hellhound_, you wouldn't have lasted another month. He'd have had you flogged to death for sure."

I wasn't reassured by his words, my darling, but I nodded, and he took that as an invitation to continue. "The captain, well, you won't find a better one in the whole fleet. You were lucky, gettin' brought aboard the _Impala_. You won't find a better ship in the whole fleet, neither. I know you've got to be worried about what's going to happen today," he added, seemingly out of the blue, "but the captain, he looks out for his own. And since he pulled you out of the drink, well, I reckon he considers you part of the crew now. You just wait and see."

I nodded again, not trusting my voice, and he gave me a rough pat on the shoulder, doubtless meant to be comforting, and left me to my thoughts, until it was time for my punishment to be meted out.

My darling, it was worse than I ever could have imagined it would be. I should probably try to make light of it, to reassure you, but I know that you have always wanted nothing short of complete honesty from me, and so I will commit to paper exactly what I experienced.

The crew had been gathered on deck, almost to a man. These things are always conducted in public, of course. I was already bare-chested and barefoot, dressed only in the thin cotton trousers I had been wearing when I jumped overboard from the _Hellhound._ I stepped forward before all those staring eyes, unable to so much as raise my head to look at the individual faces. I kept my chin level as the bosun's mates led me to a wooden frame and bound my wrists to it so tightly I feared my hands might fall off. I shivered in the cold air, the scent of brine and waterlogged wood filling my nostrils, and I heard a voice I didn't recognize announcing aloud my supposed crime of 'recklessness' endangering myself and my crew, as well as the sentence of ten lashes.

I was given a leather thong upon which to bite, but it didn't prevent me from crying out when the first blow landed across my back, and a cry of "One!" sounded, clear as a bell in the morning air. My teeth dug into the thong, and I fancied I tasted blood on my tongue. It burned as though the lash had been set alight before I was struck. I struggled to keep my composure, steeled myself for the next blow, and managed not to make a sound when it finally fell. For all that the process must have lasted only minutes, it felt like an eternity, and I was sure I would swoon before the end of it. I didn't, but it was a near thing, I am sure. My vision went dark and my knees buckled when they untied me, and I was only dimly aware of the doctor's voice barking orders that I should be taken back to his surgery. I was dragged away and dropped roughly back on my cot, face-down on the rough bedding, and only then did I allow myself to succumb to the darkness.

I have been lucky, Amelia. It does not always seem so, but it seems to me that the course my life has taken over the past few months ought to have led to my death. Instead, I have been given a second chance. It has come at a price, but one that I am more than willing to pay.

I did not withstand the lash well. I was already weakened from my ordeal aboard the _Hellhound_ and the wounds I had sustained during my escape. I did not regain my senses for a full day afterward, and when I did all I could feel was fire coursing along my back. I must have groaned or made some sort of noise, because the next thing I heard was the doctor's voice.

"Easy now, Jimmy. I know you're having a bad time of it, but you must let me work, or these wounds will fester."

I felt something slick being smeared along the burning stripes upon my back, and the cooling sensation was such a relief that I almost lost my senses again. I did allow myself a whimper, as embarrassing as it might be to tell you this. I know that you love me for myself, and won't hold me to some impossible standard of bravery or stoicism. The doctor kept applying the salve, then bandaged my back with strips of clean linen, all the while muttering imprecations under his breath about what sounded like the whole institution of corporeal punishment. Eventually I simply allowed myself to drift, lulled by the sound of his voice.

In spite of the doctor's best efforts, I did fall ill again. Most of the wounds healed cleanly, but one laceration went deeper than the others, and the fever I had succumbed to because of my knife wound came back in full force. For what seemed an eternity I lingered, trapped halfway between sleeping and waking. I was forced to lie on my stomach to allow my back to heal, and it only served to exacerbate the feeling I had of being smothered where I lay.

When I finally awoke from my delirium, it was dark, save for the single, guttering light from an almost-spent candle. There was a figure by my bed, shrouded in shadow so that I could not see the face, but the silhouette belonged neither to the captain nor to the doctor. I found that I was lying on my side, my head pillowed on my arm. I pushed myself up onto my elbow, relieved when the movement caused only minimal pain, and the candle must have illuminated my face, because a soft voice broke the silence.

"They were right. It truly is uncanny."

The figure leaned forward, and I found myself staring directly into the bluest pair of eyes I have ever seen. My heart skipped a beat, and I could not hold back a gasp of astonishment. I know you will find it as hard to believe as I did, my dearest, but when the candle cast light upon his face I could have sworn that I was staring directly into a mirror. His eyes were bluer than mine, and there was a hard edge to his jaw that I believe I do not, myself, possess, but apart from that he may as well have been my long-lost twin. He smiled mirthlessly at my gasp.

"I suppose it is a little shocking, but at least you have the luck of being a good-looking fellow, Mr. Novak. How do you fare?"

"Well enough," my voice was barely more than a croak, my throat parched from the fever. My twin handed me a cup of water, which I managed to drink even though my hands shook badly. "You must be the Admiral," I concluded, looking at his clothing.

"Astute as well," he seemed pleased by my deduction. "I suppose I shall have to give the Captain his due ―he does have good judgement when it comes to people, apart from where that brother of his is concerned. Though I will tell you that I don't for a moment believe his nonsensical version of events that has you falling overboard in a demonstration of truly impressive clumsiness. So, tell me, Mr. Novak, now that you are here and we have firmly established with the crew that the captain and I do not and will not tolerate your sort of recklessness, just what are we to do with you?"

I cleared my throat nervously. "I was rather hoping you would allow me to return home. I am an American citizen, and that was where I was headed before being press-ganged aboard the _Hellhound_. I have not seen my wife nor my child in nearly two years."

He appeared to consider this, much to my surprise. I expected an immediate refusal, since the Royal Navy is always so short of able-bodied seamen. Finally he spoke. "I don't see why that could not be arranged, eventually. But it cannot be right away, you understand. We are on an important mission, and we cannot veer off-course. We are also short-handed, as you may have guessed. I cannot ignore the fact that we have on board a man with such a skill set as we're looking for."

I nodded. "I understand." I didn't like it, not one bit, but I was entirely at their mercy. The fact that he was considering letting me return home at all was already cause for hope. "I haven't much choice in the matter, but for what it's worth, I am happy to work for my keep until you can drop me in a port somewhere. Anywhere will do, so long as there are ships bound for America."

He appeared lost in thought for while, for so long, in fact, that I began, inexplicably, to feel fearful. "There must be a reason he's here," he murmured, seemingly to himself. "His presence cannot simply be coincidence. Nothing happens by chance, everything is ordained. Why do you choose not to reveal this to me?"

I shifted uncomfortably upon my cot, and he seemed to realize that I was in the room once more. He smiled, and this time genuine warmth touched his eyes. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to keep you awake. After all this, you must be exhausted, and Dean will have my head for taxing your strength, Admiral or not. He has only the barest respect for authority. I will let you sleep, now. No doubt we will talk again at a later date."

I wanted to question him further, but the pull of sleep was too strong, and by the time I awoke again he was gone, and did not return below decks. For days the doctor was my only visitor, and then the captain came in once or twice to see how I fared. It has been days, and I am stronger with every waking hour. Today for the first time I have been able to sit up on my own since I awoke, and so I have taken the opportunity to write to you, now that I am getting well again. I don't know when I will return to you, my dearest, but I know now that I will return. It may take months, perhaps more than a year, but I am no longer being held against my will. I am free, inasmuch as one can be free onboard a ship, and when the time comes, I will come straight home to you.

I love you and Claire with all my heart. Rest assured of this.

Yours ever faithfully,

Jimmy


	4. Chapter 4

_March 15__th__, Year of Our Lord, 1798_

Dearest Amelia,

How quickly time flies aboard ship! It feels as though I only just came aboard, and yet it has been well over three months by my reckoning. I have settled into the routine of the _Impala_ in much the same way I have done on all the other vessels on which I have served, although it took me some time to get my bearings. For all that Captain Winchester appears on the surface to adhere strictly to the rules, in reality it is much different. He runs a tight ship, but discipline is kept with minimal use of the lash. His men adore him. Indeed, most of them speak of him in hushed, awed tones, as though speaking of a great giant or other mythical figure. He is lucky, they tell me, almost unnaturally so, and so is his brother. They have, the crew assures me, each escaped certain death more than once, that when all appeared lost, they miraculously escaped. The words I hear are superlative: they are blessed, God-touched.

Although Dean, the doctor, is the one with the most obvious physical weakness in the form of his game leg –an injury acquired, I am told, by a terrible fall from a horse during which he was crushed beneath the fallen animal when he was naught but a young lad– he is, strangely enough, fiercely protective of his younger brother Sam. It's odd that I have come to think of them by their Christian names, but the crew refer to them that way when they are certain the officers are out of earshot. Sam and Dean, as though they come only as a pair. Indeed, when I inquired I learned that Sam will not take to the seas without his brother as his ship's surgeon, although whether it is because he has come to rely on his brother's medical expertise and protection or because he, in his own way, wishes to keep an eye on Dean, is anyone's guess. Perhaps it is a little of both. In turn Dean offers Sam everything that he has and is, and I do mean that quite literally.

There's a closeness between the two that I cannot quite fathom, Amelia. They are brothers, it is true, and they are obviously very fond of each other, but there is more to what lies between them ―if one pays close enough attention. I believe that they would die for one another. Indeed, I believe that they would suffer an eternity of punishment in the very fires of hell for one another, and sometimes I swear it is as though they already have. I cannot find a way to properly describe these strange, charismatic men to you. Every question of mine that is answered seems to raise a hundred new ones.

They are each brilliant in their own way. Each strong and independent of thought. They rarely see eye to eye, and often clash publicly before officers and unlisted alike, though Sam is quick to draw his brother away to his cabin in some small attempt to keep the proprieties. They strike me rather as an old married couple, so set and comfortable in their ways that they haven't a care about who hears them squabble and row, never mind that Sam is the commanding officer and that the doctor must ―or should!― in the end defer to him. It is as though they each consider only the other as their equal, and that it puts them at odds with one another as often as it results in a meeting of the minds. And, my darling, you should see them when they are of like mind: it is breathtaking to see.

Just two weeks ago, we were set upon by pirates. In all my years at sea, I can count upon the fingers of one hand the number of times I have encountered proper pirates (though privateers are something of a regular occurrence), but whatever course the Admiral has us on, it is taking us nearer and nearer the Coral Sea which, though it is not so deep as the Caribbean and cannot even hope to rival the Pacific Ocean beyond, is rife with its own dangers. I will tell you, my dearest, that the crew scarcely had time to be alarmed by the sight of the skull and crossbones fluttering against the bright blue sky. The enemy ship had only enough time to draw up alongside, its thick hull resisting the shot from our cannons easily enough, when with a cry that I scarce recognized as being human I saw Captain Winchester leading the charge to board the other ship, his brother hot on his heels, in spite of his game leg.

I have never seen the like, Amelia. For a ship's surgeon to participate in a fight is unheard-of, even under the most eccentric of commanders. Nonetheless, the sight was awe-inspiring. They moved as one, and the crew followed behind, screaming like banshees, and I found myself swept along like a drop of water swirling in the tide. I cannot properly express the exhilaration I felt, hurling myself headlong at those who would threaten us: it was a heady feeling, almost as though I had drunk too much rum, though I was in full possession of my faculties, and soon I was, like the other seamen, fighting like a man possessed. A red haze seemed to descend upon all of us, and we surged forward like a pack of demons, cutting down anything in our path. The pirates, fully expecting to be the ones to board, were entirely taken off-guard by our screaming assault, and within minutes they were overrun. It seemed as though barely a moment had passed when a huge explosion rocked the pirate ship from beneath, and Captain Winchester was bellowing at us to regain the ship: he and his brother had somehow managed not only to fight their way through the milling throng of sailors and cutlasses, but to scuttle the enemy vessel without any of us seeing what they were about!

We left the scoundrels to founder with their ship, and not for the first time I marvelled at the almost unnatural likeness of mind that characterizes both brothers. I have seen them move as one. I have seen them together do what I would swear fifty men could not do –this from a captain so young that I'm shocked it doesn't embarrass the Royal Navy to have him wear the vestments of command, and a simple surgeon. What it is that exists between them, I cannot say: I only know that where one leads, the other will follow –and I cannot say with any surety which of them is leading the other. All I know is that between the two of them, they could lead this crew into the very jaws of hell, and that we would all follow and be glad to do so.

Admiral Castiel, of course, is entirely another matter. He holds himself aloof from the crew –indeed, the _Impala_ is not a ship of the line, and at first I was at a loss to explain his presence on board. It was Bobby Singer, the ship's carpenter, who illuminated me when I remarked upon this singularity.

"He's a singular one, all right," he agreed, leaning upon the rail and staring out to see through his good eye. Our watch was over since the last bell, and we were taking a well-deserved moment to ourselves to observe the setting sun, glowing crimson and gold upon the saffron-speckled waves. "Mad, most like, though I'd be grateful if that word never left your lips in his presence. He was a brilliant commander, in his prime, and that wasn't so long ago, by my reckoning, until his flagship disappeared one day not too far from here, as the crow flies."

"Disappeared?"

"Without a trace," came the answer. "He was found months later, stranded and raving upon a tiny island just of Kiribati, dressed in naught but the tattered rags that were all that remained of his uniform. He recovered, after a fashion, but he's never been truly right since. No one knows what became of his ship, saving perhaps a few higher-ups in the Admiralty. Of course, none of them stuffed shirts up in Whitehall knows anything about what life out here is really like, but we're stuck with the lot of them."

"How is it that they gave him a command, then?"

Bobby shrugged. "It ain't really a command. The Admiral may technically outrank the Captain, but it's Winchester who runs this ship, sure enough. It's a special assignment, like, because he's young, for a captain. Whitehall don't know what to do with him –his presence is a burr under the saddles of all them older men what want a command but ain't got the wherewithal to get one– so they saddled him with a half-mad Admiral and told him to hare off on this wild goose chase of ours. Most men would have taken it as a defeat," he grinned unexpectedly, revealing a gap-toothed smile, "but not Captain Winchester. Oh no. He sees it as a challenge, an opportunity to prove himself. You see if he doesn't manage to come out on top of this. I've never laid eyes on a man like him before, mark my words. He'd tweak the very nose of Lucifer himself and come out the victor," Bobby's eyes gleamed with ill-concealed glee.

"What is it that we're after, then? I thought this was a scouting ship," I found myself asking.

The older man cackled, and a chill ran down my spine at the sound. "We're hunting a monster, Mr. Novak!"

It's true, Amelia. A few more days and a few discreet questions later, and I found Bobby's words confirmed. Castiel is convinced that his ship's loss was due to a huge monster from the depths, a creature known as the Kraken. I have heard the name only once before, from sailors from the North. I remember speaking with them, they in their broken English and I in my even more limited Dutch, and they spoke of the great beast in hushed, reverent tones. At the time I put it down to mere superstition, bred by years of ignorance, but how could a man of blue blood be so convinced of something that was a mere fiction of underdeveloped minds? It seems impossible, and yet… I can only conclude that Bobby is right, and that Castiel is half-mad, or perhaps completely so. Certainly the crew avoid him as though he is tainted with ill-luck, and I suppose he is. No commander should ever survive the loss of both ship and crew. I have never been of the opinion that a captain should go down with his ship, but to be the sole survivor? It is a black day indeed in a man's life. The eyes of the crew follow him when he stalks about the deck, and he sometimes mutters to himself under his breath, wringing his hands and casting wildly about with his eyes, as though searching for some invisible foe just beyond the edges of his vision.

For a while the crew treated me with the same suspicious circumspection, due to my truly uncanny resemblance to the man whose sanity they all doubt. Once several days had gone by, though, their diffidence and hostility thawed somewhat, when it became apparent that, in temperament at least, I am nothing like their mad Admiral. Because I was weakened after my long ordeal, and because I am able to both read and write, Sam has asked me to serve temporarily as the ship's purser. The man whose shoes I am filling died in a skirmish mere weeks before I came aboard, and as I understand it his honesty left quite a bit to be desired. Sam indicated to me that the man's death was timely, as he would not have been permitted to serve on board ship past the next time it made dock. He was a greedy man, and sought to line his pockets with the meagre earnings of the sailors, who quite rightly despised it for him. I have taken up his functions as best I can, and although the work is challenging, thus far I believe I have proved myself to be up to the task. The crew are somewhat wary still, but since I have up until now given them no reason to doubt my honesty, they are slowly coming to accept me as one of their own.

Strangely enough, the Admiral has also shown an interest in me, although I have gone out of my way not to let him cultivate my acquaintance too closely. Last night, however, he explicitly invited me to dine with the rest of the officers aboard. Given the relatively small size of the crew, that meant Sam, his brother, Castiel himself, and the one lieutenant not on watch. As it turned out, Lieutenant Gibbons was taken ill as a result of spoiled meat, and thus it was that we were only four seated at the captain's table that evening. Though I was uncomfortable at first, Sam quickly put me at my ease. His brother proved no mean conversationalist either, though he is by nature more taciturn, and soon I found myself enjoying the most captivating discussion in which I had had the privilege of participating in many a long month, mostly concerning the various countries we had all visited. The captain was surprisingly knowledgeable in matters of law, history and philosophy, and his brother astonished me with grasp of a broad range of topics, from Indonesian coleoptera to the curious religious beliefs of some South American tribes to the variable quality of silks to be found in China.

Indeed, I might have sat and listened to him all night, fascinated as I was both by the topics themselves and by the animation upon his features, which I was seeing for the very first time, were it not for the fact that Castiel began questioning me, politely at first and then more insistently, about myself. He seemed particularly interested in my place of birth –the reason for my impressment– and he seemed surprised when I revealed the exact location, though only the quirking of an eyebrow betrayed this emotion. I spared him the details which only you and my parents know, that my mother travelled to America not because my father had passed away, as she claimed, but rather because he was a nobleman who refused to acknowledge me as his own, because, my dearest, I firmly believed it to be none of his concern. The tragedy is my mother's, and mine by extension, though the man who later married my mother and gave me his name has spared us both the shame of illegitimacy, and I have always seen him as my true father. Castiel pressed me for details, so insistent that even Sam's best and most polite attempts to steer the conversation into safer waters met with failure. Eventually I was forced to excuse myself in a way that bordered upon the impolite, although Sam was gracious as ever, and gave me a look that was intensely apologetic as he showed me out.

I sought refuge in the damp night air on deck, only to find myself joined shortly thereafter by the very man whose presence I had wished to avoid. "You are uncomfortable," he said, fixing me with his disconcerting blue eyes. "It was not my intention to make you so."

I fidgeted, uncertain as to how to respond. He had addressed me informally, inviting me to respond, but he was nonetheless the senior officer on board, and any reply I might make could very well be interpreted as insubordination. I am not such a fool as to presume that my situation on board the _Impala_ to be anything other than precarious, and any misstep might every well be my last. Castiel did not appear disconcerted by my lack of response, however. Instead, he stepped up to the rail and leaned so far over that for one heart-stopping moment I feared he might simply topple headfirst into the water. He didn't, of course, merely balanced where he was, staring into the murky depths of the ocean.

"Are you a man of faith, Jimmy?"

The question startled me more than any other he had posed thus far. "I beg your pardon?"

"Do you believe in God?"

I blinked. "Of course."

He nodded, seemingly confirming something to himself. "Of course," he murmured to the ocean. "It takes a man of great faith, to perform this act. We are coming to the end, you see, and I cannot believe that you are not here for a reason. What can have brought you here, now, if not an act of divine will?"

"Everything is as God ordains it," I stammered weakly, unable to believe myself, but again he nodded as though I had spoken his own thoughts aloud.

"I was cast away, you know," he said, still looking out to sea. "The seas boiled up under us, and to this day I don't know why I was spared. Have you any idea what it's like, to be adrift upon the waves as your ship founders before your eyes? The... thing that wrecked my ship... it's still out there.

"The Kraken, you mean?" I dropped my voice, as though the name itself was too terrible to speak aloud, and his silence spoke volumes.

"It has infinite patience," he said finally. "I know this now, though I thought I was safe enough when I washed ashore. It has been waiting all this time. I feel it calling, have felt it, all this time… I hear it singing even in the darkest recesses of my dreams. It is as it's meant to be." He turned to face me, and I shivered in spite of myself as I saw the expression upon his face

"I have seen the face of God, Jimmy," Castiel said, his countenance as impassive as if he were simply commenting upon the fairness of the weather, but his blue eyes glittered into the moonlight like sapphires before a flame. "And I have seen His will enacted upon the seas. I have seen the face of God, and it is awesome and terrible to behold."

I did not know what to do, Amelia, and so I murmured an excuse and fled in a manner that was entirely unbecoming and more than a little undignified, leaving him to gaze out to sea as though the horizon held the answers to all the riddles of the universe. I have been unable to sleep so much as a wink since then, and have used these past waking hours to write you instead. I am at a loss as to what this strange man might want of me, but I believe it bodes ill, no matter what it is. I can only hope that his mad quest will prove to be nothing more than that, and that I will be allowed to disembark before too long and return home to you at long last.

I love you, my darling. I hope you know this, and when we are reunited I plan to prove it to you in all the ways I can think of. I am hopeful that you will have some ideas of your own upon that subject as well.

All my love,

Jimmy


	5. Chapter 5

_April 30__th__, Year of Our Lord 1798_

My dearest love,

We have been graced with fair weather these past few weeks. Alas, we are no closer to a large port than we ever were —Sam is one of those captains who seems to know every nook and cranny in the world where he might resupply a ship without having to seek refuge in a harbour. We resupplied last off the coast of a lush little island, so small that I don't believe it even has a name, where brown-skinned girls dressed in brightly-coloured wraps came out with their men in long boats and handed up baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables, and others brimming with freshly-caught fish that we then salted for the voyage. Dean in particular was pleased with the fresh produce, indeed he insists upon resupplying the ship with them more often than occurs on board most vessels, and since the _Impala's_ crew appear to be healthier than most, it seems there is something to be said for his theory that they cleanse the body's humours. Certainly I am entirely recovered from my own bout with scurvy thanks to his ministrations, and none of my injuries have troubled me at all these past two weeks, save for the occasional twinge.

Of all the men on board, I have found Dean to be the most perplexing and the most fascinating. He is almost as unapproachable as the Admiral —though the men afford him enormous amounts of respect which they do not where Castiel is concerned— but perhaps due to the unorthodox way in which we were introduced, he seems to have warmed to me somewhat, at least enough to speak to me in more than a professional capacity. At least, that's the only reason I have come up with to explain his perplexing willingness to speak with me at all, when otherwise he reserves his conversation for his brother alone.

I am not normally given to falling into brown studies, yet that is precisely how Dean found me just the other day, staring into the crystal clear water as the prow of the ship stirred it up into foam. I heard him approach, and knew it was him by the tell-tale tapping of his cane upon the deck. He leaned beside me upon the railing and looked over the side of the ship, following my own gaze.

"You'll not find what you're looking for down there."

I allowed myself a small snort. "No, I daresay not."

He sighed, and I looked up, surprised to hear such a sound coming from him. He seems rather indomitable, most days. "For what it's worth, Sam has every intention of honouring his word."

"I don't doubt it. But if none of this had happened, I would be with them by now," I said softly, thinking of you and Claire.

Dean nodded. "I understand."

"Do you?" It was unfair of me, and churlish, but I was properly sunk into my melancholy and had no plans to let anyone pull me from those depths just yet.

"Better than you might think." He gave a short, mirthless laugh, and immediately I felt guilty.

"I apologize. I was so wrapped up in my own misery, I forgot that I am not the only man who is away from those he loves."

"No need to apologize. It's an old wound, and I should know better than to go poking at it like a small boy with a scab. Those wounds heal cleanest when left alone."

I expected him to leave, perhaps, or to lapse into one of those long silences for which he is known, but instead he reached into a pocket and produced a silver locket upon a delicate chain, and a small smile softened his features as he opened it, revealing the miniature portrait of a dark-haired, fair-skinned woman. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

I nodded. "Your wife?"

"Yes. Dead now, along with our son. He would be about your Claire's age now, if he'd lived. I have no likeness of him."

"I am sorry," I felt my throat tighten. Even the thought of losing our daughter is enough to unman me, and I could only begin to imagine the heartbreak this man must have suffered. He dismissed my words with a shake of his head.

"Sam's betrothed died as well, years ago," he said, staring at the locket in his hands. "Sometimes it seems to me as though he and I are beleaguered beyond what any one man should be asked to bear. We're alone in the world, now, he and I."

"Your parents?" I found myself almost afraid to ask.

"Dead. Our mother when Sam was a babe in arms, our father only a few years ago. There's no one left but us, and some distant cousins who've been only too happy to take on the stewardship of our small estate while Sam carries out his dream of taking to sea."

I pondered this for a few moments. "And what of you? Surely you must have had something in mind other than this?"

He shrugged. "At one time, perhaps. It all seems rather far away, now. I've always looked after Sam, even when we were no longer children. I can't imagine a life in which we'd be apart for very long, and I daresay he thinks the same."

I am not a man given to much introspection, as you must know, my darling. Most of the time I am content to simply go about my life upon the sea, without giving too much thought to what life is beyond the scope of my family and the deep blue ocean that I have always loved. That day, though, I was brought face to face with the knowledge that, on the whole, I have been blessed in my life: whatever hardships I have had to face, they pale in comparison to losing everyone I hold dear. I understand, now, the strange relationship I have witnessed between the two brothers. If they are all they have left in the world, it is no wonder that they cling to each other, finding their strength in each other when they are buffeted by the storms winds life chooses to throw at them.

It's a passing strange thing, Amelia, when I choose to think about it—

_Continued May 30__th__, Year of Our Lord 1798_

My darling, so much has happened since I was last able to write you that I scarce know where to begin. Indeed, I am astonished that this letter, abandoned in haste, has managed to survive at all. I can only take this as an auspicious sign.

As I sat composing my thoughts to you, I was interrupted by the alarm bell, sounding all hands on deck. I hastily put away my writing implements and raced up the ladder leading to the deck, expecting perhaps to sight enemy ships in the distance. Instead I found the crew gathered under stormy grey skies, looking up and around anxiously. The unease was palpable and contagious —only a few hours before the sky had been a clear, piercing blue so bright it was almost painful to look upon, and now it was almost as though night had fallen prematurely. I caught sight of Castiel standing up near the prow, his coat billowing about his legs, head thrown back, eyes closed as the salt spray crashed against the hull of the ship and sent up hundreds of thousands of droplets to land like rain upon the seasoned wood.

I opened my mouth to ask what was happening, when someone pointed into the distance. "There! Over there!"

I felt my heart plummet: a veritable wall of water was coming at us from the starboard side, a wave the likes of which I have never seen before and hope never to see again, dwarfing our tiny vessel with its size. A cry of terror arose from the crew, and I think that, in another moment, we might have broken in panic, were it not for the voice of Sam Winchester, breaking through the rising gale.

"To your stations! We cannot let that wave strike us direct. To your stations!"

It was like being pulled from a dream, except that the nightmare did not end there. We scrambled to obey his orders, most of us hurrying to batten down the hatches, to secure whatever was loose and might be hurled about in the gale-strength winds. While a few of the crew furled the sails and lashed down what they could, the rest of us sorted ourselves into two smaller crews whose sole job it would be to make sure the ship did not take on too much water. I was only vaguely aware of Dean, who took the cabin boys under his charge to help him secure his surgery, which would doubtless be needed before the night was over. Dimly I could still hear the captain shouting orders, and occasionally I fancied I heard him shouting directly at Castiel, imploring him to move, to take shelter inside his cabin, anything at all, but I cannot swear to it. We braced ourselves for impact, praying that the _Impala_ would stay steady on her course.

Amelia, never have I known such terror. I have weathered storms at sea before, but never such as this. The Captain kept a death-grip upon the steering wheel, performing feats of navigation I don't think I have ever seen rivalled. He kept the _Impala_ afloat, kept her as close-hauled as I have ever seen done, then just as abruptly jibed in order to bring her up to crest the wave. We hung there for what seemed an eternity, and truly the whole world seemed to hold its breath as we did so. I was certain that the wave would simply crush us under its vast weight, but a moment later we were away again, and in the clear, all of us heaving a sigh of relief.

We were far from safe, however. The typhoon continued to howl and rage about us, and carried on for days. We hunkered down, soaked to the skin by the pelting rain. Even below decks everything was wet. Water dripped from every surface and pooled at our feet, and we were unable to keep so much as a candle alight. Staying above decks was impossible for more than a couple of hours at a time before the cold made us too numb to so much as hold onto the rigging, let alone be effective as crew. Even the Captain himself was forced to relinquish the helm to the first and second mates every three hours or so. We huddled together for warmth, officers and crew alike, listening to the shrieking of the gale and the groaning and creaking of the ship's great timbers all around us, like souls in agony, and waited for the worst to blow over.

We waited in vain for days. The storm tossed us about like a shell dancing upon the water, and with every passing moment I was amazed that the ship was not simply ripped asunder by the violence of the waves, or struck by lightning. By the time the fifth day had passed, by our reckoning, we all knew there could be nothing natural about this sudden and terrible squall that has us in its clutches, and some of the crew began muttering amongst themselves about ill luck and madness running rampant. Castiel remained on deck throughout, and though he allowed Sam to coax him to shelter a few times, by the end he refused to come in from the storm at all. How he did not perish of exposure, or was not washed out to sea a dozen times, is anyone's guess: I would say that God favours the mad, but in light of what transpired afterward I am loath to invoke the name of the Almighty in the same breath as that man's name.

The storm raged for six nights, and on the dawn of the seventh day Castiel came to fetch me in my hammock, pulling me roughly by the arm, half-dragging me to the ladder. "You must come with me," he insisted, "it is almost here!"

I swayed where I stood, uncomprehending. "What? What's here? You're not making any sense, man!"

He turned to face me, though I could not see his face in the gloom. "Come, and I will show you!"

A thrill ran up my spine at that, though I cannot tell you precisely why, and without another moment's pause I followed him up the ladder. Immediately I fell to my knees upon the deck, buffeted by the winds, but Castiel appeared unaffected. He seemed entirely at ease in the storm, exhilarated, even. He had long since shucked his coat, and his clothing was soaking wet and clinging to him, his hair tousled and lank about his ears, free of all its bindings. I staggered after him as he strode purposefully to the prow of the ship, rising up against the stormy sky like the pinnacle of a church. To my astonishment, he sprang up from the deck to climb onto the bowsprit, where he clung, an absurd figurehead, before raising defiant fist toward the sky, silhouetted by a flash of unexpected lightning.

"It is the end!" he cried, his words all but snatched away by the howling winds. "I know you are there, that you have been waiting. I am here, now. Come forth, if you dare!"

The ship lurched, then, and he was sent tumbling backward. I barely had time to throw myself forward to catch him, and we reeled, clinging together in a strange, drunken embrace. The sea surged under our feet, and as I looked down at the churning water, I saw it begin to bubble and froth, as though the ship sailed upon a huge cauldron that had begun to boil. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt a tremor run through me that had nothing to do with the numbing cold of the wind and rain. Castiel threw his head back in a fit of wild laughter.

"That's it!" he crowed, and then fixed me with a crazed stare. "I knew it would be you," he said, voice rising incredibly above the shrieking storm. "The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew, and your story only proved me right. We are blood, you and I, and the sea cares not which blood gets sacrificed!"

He pulled free, and I fell to my hands and knees, even as the ship rose and fell on an impossible wave. My feet slid upon the rain-slicked wood and I could not so much as raise my head without being half-blinded by the driving rain. All around me, all but drowned out by the sounds of the squall, I could hear panicked shouting, the Captain's calm voice rising above the rest, booming across the deck at his men to stay at their posts, and the sound reassured me like nothing else could. Then I raised my head again, and all thoughts were replaced by sheer, mind-numbing terror.

With a booming of thunder all around, a huge form arose out of the water, and as I frantically clutched at the rail to keep myself from being washed overboard, I found myself staring into a huge, unblinking eye, larger across than the span of two hands. Whether or not it could see me, I cannot say, but I was consumed with the need to get away, to flee from that flat, intractable gaze. I fell back, clawing at the deck in a futile attempt to escape, even as a monstrous tentacle snaked up over the prow, splintering the wood in its way as a child might snap matchsticks for amusement. Hands grasped at my arms, pulling me to my feet, and I found myself face to face with Castiel, his countenance alight as he stared at the enormous creature that rose above the water, towering over our small vessel. Up until that very moment, Amelia, in spite of everything, I had persisted in believing the Kraken to be a myth, a figment of Castiel's fevered imagination, and even with it right before my eyes I found myself praying that I was caught in some terrible delirium.

Castiel did not give me time to adjust to the horrific reality of the Kraken. He hauled me to my feet with a strength that surprised me, as though he was possessed by a demon. Indeed, Amelia, I am still not certain that was not the case. Even as the ship danced and lurched across the surface of the water, tossed about in the tempest created by the Kraken's mighty thrashing, Castiel attempted to drag me closer to the railing, where I caught sight of a huge beak, opening and closing as though in invitation.

"You shall not have me, you fiend!" Castiel shrieked, even as I struggled to free myself from his grasp, and the thunder crashed overhead once more, as though lending force to his words. "I shall live to see the end of days!"

There was no time for me to grasp what his motives might be. All I knew was that he meant to feed me to this creature, this leviathan that had lain dormant for years beneath the murky depths of the ocean. He held me in a vice-like grip, dragging me inexorably closer to that snapping beak, that baleful eye. The creature seemed to blot out the entire sky with its huge bulk, looming grotesquely in the eerie light of the storm. Dimly I could make out the shapes of my crewmates —of the captain and his brother and every available ship's hand— fighting desperately from various positions about the decks, both to fend off the Kraken's enormous tentacles and to keep the ship afloat in spite of the onslaught. There was no salvation for me there: even if they had been aware of my plight, they were all but overwhelmed themselves.

In a burst of strength I never knew I possessed I gathered my legs beneath me and shoved as hard as I could, hurling the both of us hard against the railing of the ship. We grappled and fought for purchase, his hands at my neck and mine at his shoulders, desperately trying to break each other's grips, in a grotesque parody of one of those highly improper dances that are only beginning to come into fashion. There was no love in Castiel's gaze, though, only murderous intent, and he was stronger and fitter than I, especially in light of my previous ordeals. I felt myself slip, then teeter backward over the railing, the only thing keeping me from plunging into the creature's maw my grip on Castiel's arms. I chanced a glance downward, and my heart leapt into my throat as I saw the gigantic beak opening and closing voraciously, the tentacles coiling and writhing as they reached out to engulf our tiny vessel.

I was going to die.

I am not ashamed to say that I was utterly terrified, Amelia. In that moment, though, as the madman dangled me above the Kraken's maw like a worm on a fishing hook, all I could think of was you and Claire, and how I would never see you again. The thought lent strength to my arms, and with one last, desperate wrench I managed to unbalance Castiel enough that I sent us both toppling head over heels toward the monster's gaping mouth. The fall cannot have lasted for more than a few seconds, but it felt an eternity. Lightning flashed overhead, and I twisted upon myself as I fell, and at the last moment my grasping fingers caught hold of a strand of rope come loose from its moorings. I don't know what lent me the strength to hold on, but hold on I did, even as Castiel plunged past me with a blood curdling shriek, and disappeared from view.

I clung desperately to the side of the ship, battered by the winds and rain, my hands numb from the cold. Lightning crackled all around and thunder crashed about the ship like the noise of a thousand cannons. I felt rather than saw the Kraken's tentacles draw back from where they had been attempting to crush the _Impala_, and the ocean surged up all around us, frothing and boiling. I could hear Sam still shouting orders as, against all odds, the great monster pulled away and began to sink back under the waves, creating a maelstrom the likes of which I have never seen before and likely will never see again.

Amelia, I was certain that I was lost. If the ship was not pulled into that terrible vortex, then I felt certain that my already-numb hands would lose their tenuous grip upon the rope, and that I would be sent plummeting to the bottom of the ocean. As it was, my vision was swimming, and I could already feel myself slipping, inch by inexorable inch, toward the raging waters. Once again, it was the thought of you and Claire, still waiting for me to return, that prevented me from giving in altogether. The world narrowed to a single point on the hull of the ship upon which I gazed as though my life depended on it —indeed, in a way I suppose it did— and I clung there like a barnacle, freezing and almost blinded, half out of my mind from the fear that the next wave would prove my undoing. All around, the ocean grew quiet, and just as suddenly as it had blown in, the gale was gone. A hoarse cheer went up from the crew, but I couldn't muster the strength even to call out for rescue; it took all that I had simply to hold onto that end of rope.

I have no notion how long I hung there, but eventually I heard someone cry out. "Here, Captain! I've found him!"

There was a flurry of activity above me. I heard Sam call my name, but I couldn't call back to acknowledge him, could not so much as raise my head to look at the sky. I think I must have lost my senses for a while, because I don't at all remember how I came to be back on board the ship. All I know is that when I next opened my eyes I was in the now-familiar surroundings of Dean's infirmary, with the good doctor himself sitting not too far from my bedside. He glanced up as he heard me stir, and graced me with a rather grim-looking smile.

"You are beginning to make a habit of this, Jimmy," he said, not unkindly. "I'm beginning to think it's because you covet the more comfortable beds in here. Or perhaps you are simply overly fond of having my brother rescue you from drowning, though I wouldn't go around trumpeting that too loudly, if I were you. Goodness knows what people might think."

I managed a half-hearted laugh which quickly turned into a full-fledged coughing fit, and he limped over to my bed and patted me awkwardly on the back until the fit passed. Then he coaxed some rather foul-tasting medicine into me, dropped another blanket on me, and asked if I felt up to a visitor.

"My brother has been scratching at the door like an anxious dog ever since we carried you inside. I think he has something he's been meaning to ask you."

Sam, it turned out, was more intent on apologizing for Castiel's actions than anything. "I cannot begin to fathom what prompted him to do such a thing," was one of the first things he said to me. "I am so sorry I didn't see his intent before it was too late."

I struggled to a sitting position, and shook my head. "You have nothing to be sorry for. As much as I am loath to speak ill of the dead, and of a superior officer, I believe he was no longer responsible for his actions, in the end."

"But I am responsible for all my crew," he shook his head, face pinched with guilt. "I should have seen that he was out of his mind. And that unhealthy fascination with you... granted, you two are so alike that you might be brothers, but—"

His brother interrupted him. "As it happens, Sam, I think they may have been. Do you remember all his questions about where Jimmy was born? About his parentage?" he threw me an apologetic look. "I hope you will forgive me for being so blunt, Jimmy, but am I wrong in thinking that your mother and father were married in America?"

I blushed, and did not meet his gaze. "You are not wrong," I confirmed.

"Then the man who took you in as his was not, in fact, your true father."

My face grew even hotter then, and both men were kind enough not to stare at me. "He was not my father by blood, no, though he was so in every other respect. I have no idea who my blood kin might be."

"Yet you were born less than two miles from Castiel's family's estate. Combined with your uncanny resemblance, it doesn't seem at all far-fetched that one might conclude you and he were related, even if the relationship was never legitimized."

Everything began to be clearer in my mind then, Amelia. At least, in a twisted way. "He said the end times were upon us," I said. "I have no idea what he meant, save that he appeared convinced that —that monster lusted for his blood."

Sam nodded, as though what I said made perfect sense. "The Kraken is meant to be a herald of the end of times, or so hold some of the superstitions I have heard. If he thought it wanted a blood sacrifice..." he gave me a hard look, though I guessed it wasn't truly aimed at me. "God, how monstrous."

"Well," Dean interrupted briskly, "he's gone now, and Jimmy here is safe and sound, and presumably has a decent claim on the Admiral's estate, if you want to pursue it, that is," he looked at me.

"Good God, no," I shook my head. "I have no interest in it whatsoever. That family wanted nothing to do with me before, and I am happy to return the sentiment. Let them keep their blood money."

To my astonishment, Dean grinned at me. "Just as well. Like as not their family is crippled with debt. It happens all too often, these days. What will you do, then?"

I stared at my hands, folded in my lap. This was the moment I had been waiting for, and yet I was almost afraid to open my mouth and ask for that which I desired most, afraid that, under that congenial facade, Sam would turn out to be no different than any other captain in the Royal Navy and force me to stay and serve my term aboard the _Impala_. He would have been well within his rights to insist, and I found myself reluctant to test his goodwill. He surprised me by placing a hand on my arm.

"I've been thinking," he said, staring at me with those big, earnest eyes of his. "You've been with us for long enough now that you've proven your worth as a purser. You're an honest man, which is difficult to come by in men of that profession, and I would hate to lose you. Hear me out," he raised a hand before I could interrupt. "I know you're away from your wife and your family and have been for a long time, but I daresay the _Impala_ is due to sail in different waters for a while. I must return to London to report what has happened to Whitehall, and from there it's not nearly as far to America as it is from here. If you come with us, the trip will be almost the same length as if you were to disembark at the next large port and try to make your way back on your own, and it would be costly. This way, at least, you would earn your keep, and I'd like to think that the crew has earned your trust —the Admiral aside, of course," he added wryly.

I was too astonished to reply at first. "I don't know what to say."

"You needn't think of it as a permanent position," Sam added hastily. "Just until we reach Boston —I am sure something can be arranged. If you wish to keep on with us after that, well, I for one would be more than happy to retain your services. So long as you work with us, too, you will never have to fear impressment upon another ship, which is something you should consider strongly as being in our favour, too."

Dean clapped me on the shoulder. "You may as well accept now, Jimmy my lad. I have never known Sam to take 'no' for an answer, whenever he set his mind on something."

Sam grinned, first at his brother, and then at me, and I knew then my fate was sealed.

So much of this seems like an impossible dream now, Amelia. We are sailing back to England, with a few stops planned along the way to resupply, but otherwise the course plotted is as direct as can be managed. Sam appears confident that he will be allowed to pursue whatever course he deems fit once he has reported to Whitehall, and his optimism has infected the entire crew, who are visibly relieved at no longer being burdened with Lord Castiel's folly. On the whole, it is a brighter and happier ship that has set sail away from the South Pacific.

It may take some time, my love, but at long last, I am coming home to you.

Be well until my return,

Your loving Jimmy


End file.
